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- Марк Мэнсон
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- Тонкое искусство пофигизма
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- Стр. 111/115
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At
three
feet
,
your
body
goes
into
full
-
scale
red
alert
.
You
are
now
within
an
errant
shoelace
-
trip
of
your
life
ending
.
It
feels
as
though
a
hefty
gust
of
wind
could
send
you
sailing
off
into
that
blue
-
bisected
eternity
.
Your
legs
shake
.
As
do
your
hands
.
As
does
your
voice
,
in
case
you
need
to
remind
yourself
you
’
re
not
about
to
plummet
to
your
death
.
The
three
-
foot
distance
is
most
people
’
s
absolute
limit
.
It
’
s
just
close
enough
to
lean
forward
and
catch
a
glimpse
of
the
bottom
,
but
still
far
enough
to
feel
as
though
you
’
re
not
at
any
real
risk
of
killing
yourself
.
Standing
that
close
to
the
edge
of
a
cliff
,
even
one
as
beautiful
and
mesmerizing
as
the
Cape
of
Good
Hope
,
induces
a
heady
sense
of
vertigo
,
and
threatens
to
regurgitate
any
recent
meal
.
Is
this
it
?
Is
this
all
there
is
?
Do
I
already
know
everything
I
will
ever
know
?
I
take
another
microstep
,
then
another
.
Two
feet
now
.
My
forward
leg
vibrates
as
I
put
the
weight
of
my
body
on
it
.
I
shuffle
on
.
Against
the
magnet
.
Against
my
mind
.
Against
all
my
better
instincts
for
survival
.
One
foot
now
.
I
’
m
now
looking
straight
down
the
cliff
face
.
I
feel
a
sudden
urge
to
cry
.
My
body
instinctively
crouches
,
protecting
itself
against
something
imagined
and
inexplicable
.
The
wind
comes
in
hailstorms
.
The
thoughts
come
in
right
hooks
.
At
one
foot
you
feel
like
you
’
re
floating
.
Anything
but
looking
straight
down
feels
as
though
you
’
re
part
of
the
sky
itself
.
You
actually
kind
of
expect
to
fall
at
this
point
.
I
crouch
there
for
a
moment
,
catching
my
breath
,
collecting
my
thoughts
.
I
force
myself
to
stare
down
at
the
water
hitting
the
rocks
below
me
.
Then
I
look
again
to
my
right
,
at
the
little
ants
milling
about
the
signage
below
me
,
snapping
photos
,
chasing
tour
buses
,
on
the
off
chance
that
somebody
somehow
sees
me
.
This
desire
for
attention
is
wholly
irrational
.
But
so
is
all
of
this
.
It
’
s
impossible
to
make
me
out
up
here
,
of
course
.
And
even
if
it
weren
’
t
,
there
’
s
nothing
that
those
distant
people
could
say
or
do
.
All
I
hear
is
the
wind
.
Is
this
it
?
